The Green Burrito: A sequel to Angus
by BennyP
Summary: A large, pathetic eighth-grader finds strength from unlikely friends to confront his tormentors. Work in progress.
1. Luginbill Puddles

**Luginbill Puddles**

My name is something of a prophecy. Robert Bean. Yeah, it's not much of an attention-caller, but like a good prophecy, it asks to be deciphered. During the second grade, a certain Kevin Henke tacked on the moniker "Burrito", and I was christened the name "Burrito Bob". My fellow peers couldn't help but laugh at my new name. At first, I didn't know why; eating burritos wasn't really my thing. It took me a trip to the mirror to get my answer: Compared to other kids, I was fat. Really fat. Because of this realization, I gave Kevin a good smack on his nose, for which I was summarily suspended from school. When I came back, I was known as either "The Kid Who Beat Up Kevin Henke" or "The Bean Burrito." 

Around fifth grade, I was in Pop Warner as a lineman when during a play I went too fast and slipped onto the recently cut grass, so that the fresh grass stains clashed with my blue-and-white uniform. Some receiver named Terry Loge screamed to me from nearby, "Love that big ass, Green Burrito". Everyone heard it, and everyone had a very good laugh, except me of course. Since then, Kevin and his new friend turned my newfound humiliation into a cottage industry, figuring out new insults to throw at me and new names to spark my wrath, although most of them didn't last too long among the crowds, which were always expecting for something more permanent. 

So I'm known as the "Green Burrito." I hate it. Everyone else loves it and show their hate for me by using it. Then again, everyone else loves Kevin Henke. I found myself increasingly jealous of him. He was getting leaner and hotter with the girls, while I was only getting fatter and fatter. No girl could resist his charm or his long blonde hair. And it really must impress them whenever either he or someone else in the cafeteria loudly proclaimed that I was a walking whale, or when someone on my team calls me an embarassment on the gridiron or on the diamond and that I must be some teacher's pet because of my good grades. Usually, these comments would be followed by a fight and ended up with either detention or suspension. 

For that, I hate Kevin Henke. He's the cause of my loneliness. With my last semester as an eigth-grader starting today, I don't know what to do about it. Maybe something good might finally come up. I'm a very good pitcher, and I like to think I kick ass as an offensive lineman, and English and Science are always fun. Teachers and coaches like me. Other than my run-ins with Kevin, I think I'm a nice guy, if only I had the chance. Something good just _has_ to come up. 

I take a look at my uniform, a white polo shirt that bulges at its seams as I fight to put it on and blue pants that press skin-tight against my legs. It's snowing now, so I get my blue jacket as I walk to the kitchen. Dad's left for work now, so I get my own breakfast and eat a bowl of corn flakes. I quickly make a ham and cheese sandwich, which soon joins my bottle of water and apple in my plastic lunchbox. I better hurry; my bus comes in ten minutes, even though I really don't want to board it. Still, I get my backpack and run out of my small house, past the small, leafless tree, and onto the side of the high road, waiting with the snowdrifts for my bus, which soon enough comes. 

I get on the bus, and instantly I become stuck between its doors. That's never happened to me before. Did I get that large in such a short time? 

I suck it all in and go up to find a seat, only to meet the wads of crumpled paper flying to me from my loving passengers. Among them are my mortal enemies Henke and Loge, bonding with two other guys I didn't recognize. You should see me then; I'm so bored of it, I don't even react to their taunts anymore. I breathe a deep sigh and look for a seat, but the only one that's not taken is by some small, pale and goofy-looking kid I've never seen before. He must be new, and he probably didn't hear the taunting fanfare announcing the presence of the approaching Green Burrito, because he's madly searching for something in his backpack, ignoring the commotion. I sit down next to him, and the bus takes off. 

The kid next to me closes his backpack and looks up, looking really scared. 

"Hi." Not much of a first impression, as I almost never give one on my account, but, well, there you go. 

He turns to me. His hair is black, flat and nappy, and his eyes are gray and full of fear. He probably got a briefing on me already, and so he doesn't say anything. 

"You're looking for something," I deduced to him. 

"My baseball," he softly replies, "I lost my baseball." 

I notice his accent, not to mention his taste for sports. Now my curiosity awakens. 

"You play baseball?" 

"A little," he goes, obviously not finding any relief in talking to me. 

"I'm--" I stopped. Up to this point, I couldn't imagine what I wanted to call myself. Rob? Bob? Green Burrito? They were all bad names. "--Robert Bean." I quickly offer my hand. 

The boy looks at it as though holding it would suck the life force out of him, but after a second or two, he shakes back, and quickly lets go. 

"Luginbill Puddles," he replies in a natural Texas twang. He must have lots of sleepless nights thinking about such a weird name, so I won't press it. He now starts to look around his seat. 

"It probably didn't wander far," I told him. Thinking he's probably new, I ask, "Where are you from?" 

"Uhm, Odessa, Texas," Luginbill breathes out. "I have to find that ball. It's my only one!" 

This frustrates me a bit, hearing the increasing sense of urgency in his voice, so I turn my head into the aisle and look for the ball, finding nothing. 

The bus stops in front of Owatonna Middle School. In six months I'll be out of there. Given the bad press I get regularly, I think I can manage. 

The uniformed kids get off the bus. Luginbill stands up, but I motion him to wait. 

"I have to look for that baseball!" 

Kevin, Loge and his two new friends approach me, taking a look at Luginbill. 

"So, who's your new friend, Burrito?" Kevin spat, as Loge smiled icily and the two unknowns surveyed Luginbill and me with their disapproving eyes. Kevin then approached Luginbill's ear and whispered something I couldn't make out. Luginbill was taken aback at this. Then Kevin pulled away and he and his friends followed each other off the bus. 

Once everyone is off, we take a quick look all over the bus in search of the baseball, but none is found. Finally, the bus driver told us to get off, and we had to obey. Once again, I suck myself in and shove through the doors. The snow had stopped, but the sky still showed promise of a cloudy day, and the ground was now covered with wet and muddy snow. Luginbill comes down and meets me in front of the bus. The bus closes its door and speeds off. 

"My aunt doesn't like it when I lose baseballs," Luginbill spoke weakly. 

"You could have one of mine. I have lots." Indeed, my locker is well-equipped for any sport, and baseballs are plentiful. 

"You mean it?" Luginbill turns to me, and I turn to see him. Somehow, my proposition must have surprised him. Luginbill looked back down. 

I start feeling sorry for him and for myself, because we couldn't find his baseball. "You want to go to my locker? I can give you a new ball and maybe show you around." 

Luginbill looked back up. Then he looked around. All of the other kids coming from the buses are running towards the school building to take shelter from the cold. 

"Okay," Luginbill finally said. So I walk towards the main building, and Luginbill follows. How nice; someone is actually tagging along. 

Then, suddenly, something cold smacks my left cheek. I turn to its source. Kevin and company are hurling a barrage of snowballs at Luginbill and me! I take Luginbill and run towards the building, but we're ambushed by other kids who take a few shots at us with more snowballs. The bell rings, and everyone runs off. 

I turn to Luginbill, now on the floor, getting himself up and checking that the coast is clear. As soon as he did, however, he speeds off to the building. 

"My locker is 250! Can you stop by?" I call to him. 

But without saying anything, Luginbill takes a quick glance at me and runs even faster. I know that glance; it was one of shock and even disgust. He disappears into the building. 

I walk towards the steps and sit on them, looking towards the nearby snow. After a moment of hope, depression sank quickly, but this time with a surging vengeance. _Why do you always have to screw up everything?_


	2. Greg Mongeau

**Greg Mongeau**

The bell rang me out of my funk, and I got up. No one was around. That would've been a good thing if it didn't mean that classes have started. I run up to the building and through the halls. The halls are now devoid of students and teachers. Quickly, I look up my name on a post on the wall and run to my assigned homeroom, which was all the way across school. As I made a turn for the exit, however, I run and crash onto something, and I collapse on the floor. 

"Shit! Are you okay?" Funny. _Somethings_ can't talk. 

I compose myself and get up as I look onto whom I crashed my largeness with. Surely enough, it's another young man, even larger than me, and that's quite a feat. His face is round, pale and baby-like, with a pout on his lips, but his eyes are hidden behind his stylish sunglasses. He seems to have eyed me for a while, then his head turns to see something on the floor. I follow his gaze and find my binder and some papers on the hall floor. I crouch to pick them up, but he follows me to help. As he is down, I take a quick look at his blue polo shirt, which said something steched over his left breast in tiny letters: SECURITY. 

"Where are you going?" he asks in a lulled lisp. 

My eyes are still on the shirt's stitching. Now what? First day of school, and already detention awaits at its end? He might take me to the principal and have me suspended or something. I didn't know, but my nerves were certainly crumbling. 

He gets up again as I place my things in my backpack. 

"You're okay?" 

I nod. In truth, I wasn't. 

"You better get to class. Spending a whole afternoon of your first day picking up cafeteria trash and blown-up condoms isn't very productive, unless you want good references for a future career in janitorial work, of which I can happily provide." 

Somehow, this put me in a better mood, so I smile a bit. 

"Kick ass," he responds modestly. "Where to?" 

"Room 21." 

"You're a little far from there, aren't you? Let's go." 

I follow him outside and across the school grounds until we reach the bungalows. I knew perfectly well where Room 21 was, so I didn't need his help. But with all this cold weather you can't help but to get together with someone. 

"Why were you late, if I can ask?" he asked, his head fixed towards the bungalows. "Slept on the bus? Parents dozed off?" 

"No reason." Of course there was a reason, but I'll let Greg know of it, not some security officer.... Come to think of it, I've never seen this guy before. Or maybe I simply never noticed him before. What, with all the guys I've fought in this school, I should know all of the security officers by now, but this one must've slipped my mind. But how could he? Look at him; he's _huge_! 

"No problem," he responds in an upbeat nonchalance. 

"Are you new here?" I ask as we approach Room 21. 

"Yeah, I just started today." 

Whoa, that's a relief. He _is_ new! But why was that relieving? 

"Here we are. I used to have science here with Mr. Branson. He's a real he-bitch. Is he still around?" 

I didn't know who Mr. Branson was, as I have never had a class with him, so I just shrugged my shoulders. 

"No matter. I bet it's warmer inside." 

Understanding this, I open the door and enter the room to see the teacher and the kids suddenly staring and giggling at me as though I was ten minutes late for my execution, but then the security guy holds my shoulders back. He probably noticed the stares. 

"If you need anything, just call my name." Sounds like a plan, I thought. If that Branson guy was as bitchy as he called him, a little help wouldn't hurt. He gives a wave to the teacher and leaves. Then, I realized I forgot something. What _was_ his name!? I didn't even give him mine! I turn back to him, but the door was now shut. Still feeling the gaze of everyone inside, I go to the only seat available in front of the room, of which I found hard to get into. Man, I must've really grown; I can't budge into it. My classmates take notice and giggle even more. I finally squeeze myself into my seat. Someone has already begun to pass the schedules, and I get mine. 

Mr. Branson is up first. Greg better be there, because I don't want to find out by myself if that security guy was right. 

The bell rings, and now I'm off to the first class of the day. Everyone can't help but look at the walking and talking giant that I am. Sneers usually follow, but I try not to mind. I look around in vain search of the nameless security guy as I make it to Mr. Branson's class. 

Surely enough, Kevin, Loge, and their unnamed cronies are at the class. Ah, but to my relief, I hear my name spoken in a crackling voice. "Bean!" It's Gregory Mongeau, my absolutely best friend, if a bit horny round the clock. No doubt he'll be demonstrating his newfound ways to please himself in the shower, so to speak. He spots me, and motions me to come. I quickly take a seat next to him. 

"You ever been in a jacuzzi?" 

"Like I could fit into one," I dismiss. 

"You know what I did? I went to one of the jet stream holes where all the hot water comes out and, when everyone was out,..." Need I tell you more? But this wasn't important, as Kevin, Loge and their two friends come up to me. Kevin is as handsome as ever, and Terry even more so, with their modest builds and soft faces, except that Loge wore some fancy glasses. The other two were big, but unlike me, they were buff, and not too bad looking. Somehow, Kevin and Loge always manage to stand out in fashion, even as they wear their uniforms. 

"How are you today?" Kevin spoke in his voice of poisoned honey. "No doubt you were expanding your horizons last Christmas." He pats on my stomach. 

I should give him an uppercut. I never tried one before, and I've been mulling it for a while now, but the opportunity passed up, now that the bell rings and Mr. Branson comes in. Kevin and company walk back to their seats. I take another survey of the classroom, and I find Luginbill Puddles sitting in front, with no one next to him. 

Let's just say that Mr. Branson must either have a fire in his stomach or he has to pee badly, because he's super-excited. He's young, maybe early 50s, clean-cut, and has this nice suit. On his face, he wears a big smile. Not a single word from him is muttered or muffled; he definitely wants his class to hear and heed to every bit that comes out of his lips. He then takes out this glass jar and holds it in front of us, saying it's a preserved baby octopus. That was weird, because I've never seen any preserved animal before, much less in a jar full of yellow liquid. In his faith, he passed it around, telling everyone that they had to be careful with it. 

I then have my turn at it and take a look at the little tentacles. Man, this looks awesome. After a few seconds more than everyone else, I pass it to Greg, who quickly passes it to someone else. Eventually, it makes it into the hands of Luginbill--well, actually it slipped from his hands once he held it. The glass jar broke and spilled the dead octopus and the yellow liquid onto the floor, triggering many a scream from the females. 

Mr. Branson comes up to Luginbill, but instead of cleaning up the mess, his face suddenly tightens, as though he just switched masks, and viciously eyes Luginbill. "Get up, boy!" His tone was the same, but it had a much meaner approach now. Luginbill slowly stood up, keeping his head low. 

"You know how much that costed me? Had I known you were some stupid preschooler, I would've asked your mom to hold it! I can see we've already found our class klutz." At this, Luginbill's lips quivered. Mr. Branson wasn't done: "Take off your jacket and clean this mess of the floor with it. You trashed my possession, so it's only fair that in return I trash yours." Luginbill followed his orders with the immediacy of a puppet, took off his jacket, and scrubbed the floor with it. 

I'm seeing all this, staring at Mr. Branson. This must've been what the security guy meant. I was only thinking that this guy wasn't an easy A. 

But he must've felt my stare, because the next minute, he turns to me. I look down, but he already starts walking towards my desk. 

"You must be Robert Bean!" he goes, now with full zeal. 

I try to look away, but I can now feel his stare, too. 

He makes it to my desk. "Stand up, boy!" I didn't want to. I was sure that he would make me peform the last rites for the octopus, even though it was already dead. He probably knew that I was the infamous Green Burrito. Seeing no point in shrugging it off, I stand. 

He extends his right arm over my shoulder and his left arm towards the class. "Now _this_ guy shows promise! A true genius." I should've been flattered, actually, but having him point this out in a classroom full of Burrito-haters was rather embarassing. My cheeks were turning really red in fear. "Soon, you will _all_ bow down to this man! He could find a cure for the cold. He could win the Nobel prize!" I could, but couldn't I have figured that out for myself? 

He finally leaves, but I still stand, now looking down on the faces of my contemptuous peers. Greg brings be back to Earth by pulling me down to my seat. 

"Class act all the way, huh?" Greg goes dryly. To be honest, he wasn't too good with science. I now know that this will be a field trip to hell for at least three people in this class. 

That security guy was right. 


	3. Angus Bethune

**Angus Bethune**

So now it's lunchtime. As usual, Greg and I go to our table, of which no one sits, so that gives us lots of room to do homework. Once in a while, someone shoves through and tells me to "move it, Burrito," of which I do on command. They could at least say "please". 

Greg then pulls out a comic book from his backpack. It's one of those anime comic books. I don't really care for them; it's always the same thing: In post-Apocalyptic Tokyo, kids running robots try to save the world from even bigger robots. And they _always_ have these pretentious, self-important names: "The Last Exile," "Metropunk: Genesis," or "Messiah of Evil". Greg, however, always buys one when he's in St. Paul, and only to see the tits and ass. He opens it up and shows me this girl with pink hair, big eyes and bigger boobs, smiling at us as she uses one arm to hold this huge bazooka and the other to pet it. 

"I could go for some of that right now." Greg says with a big grin. 

"What? The girl or the gun?" I reply. 

"Check her out!" 

And I do. She looks great, for a drawing anyway. But I know better. "Look at her gun. It's phallic imagery." 

"Everything to you is phallic." 

I turn away, and I see Kevin, Loge and their friends coming in from the other side of the cafeteria, holding small pizza boxes and soda. I could go for that right now, instead of this lousy sandwich I'm eating or Greg's beauties. Kevin and friends take seats next to these pretty girls. Kevin in particular is kissing this one blonde girl, while the others joke with each other. 

"Ever found out who those other two guys are?" 

Greg, who's still drooling over his comic-book hottie, shakes his head. 

Then, the security guard walks in, takes off his sunglasses, and looks around. He spots me and waves. I wave back. 

Suddenly, something small hits me from my left. I quickly turn, but all I see are a bunch of guys talking and eating. I turn back, and see that the security guard noticed something, too, although he stays put. Greg notices nothing. 

A minute later, it hits me again, and I turn to still find nothing. Then, I look down, and spot this rolling wad of paper. I turn back, but now I see the security guy walking to near where I am. He looks around, frustrated but intent on catching someone. Then, someone's voice comes out of the walkie-talkie fastened onto his belt. 

"Yo, Angus, something's wrong at the boys' bathroom in the main building, second floor. All the toilets are exploding, and there's crap everywhere. Over." 

The security guy sighs as he turns to me. He takes the walkie-talkie and speaks in it. 

"Yeah, I'm on my way. Out." 

He walks out of the cafeteria. 

Since I was now done with my lunch, I thought it would be a nice idea to get out, too. I pack my stuff, trying to ignore another wad shot at me. Greg follows. 

As I walk through the playground, I see all the guys playing basketball and all the girls gawking at them. I sometimes hope that maybe I could play with them and have the girls gawk at me for once. But baseball season's still months away, and even then, despite the fact that I'm a good pitcher, it never gets the praise that I want. Girls just don't find fat guys attractive, even if he's standing on the mound not having to run and shake his flabby guts in the process. 

After crossing the playground and surviving the incoming bits of milk cartons, Greg and I hide away from all our loyal "fans" and go to a building on the other side of the campus. I remember the security's guy's name blurted through the walkie-talkie earlier. Angus. Sounds familar. Isn't that the name of a cow? Maybe it's just a code name. 

Greg then drops his bags, takes out his comic book, and runs off, barely saying that he's going to the bathroom. 

I think about who'd want to blow up the bathrooms in the main building. No doubt it has to be those two pranksters, De la Llave and Flores. I don't think of them fondly, since they've pulled quite a few of them on me in the past. I take out my new textbooks and give them a leafing. 

Suddenly, from where Greg went into, I hear his screams of laughter. I get up and run to where he is, entering the bathroom. Sure enough, Kevin's cronies are holding down Greg with his pants down as Kevin tickles him to death. 

"Ah, so _this_ must be the Green Burrito." One of the unknown assailants goes. 

Immediately, I rush the guy, but Greg's gasping laughter dies down as the other three now punch me wherever. I grab one of them, Loge, and get him away from Greg. The two unknowns, however, grab my arms and pin me to the floor. I can see Greg getting up and trying to pull Kevin away, who's now throwing a few punches on my stomach, but Loge props back up and pulls Greg into a stall, where he finishes him off. The bell rings, but the gang ignores this. 

To our luck, Angus the security guard comes in, just grabs one of the guys, and sends him flying across the bathroom. Seeing this, the fear of God sets in Kevin, Loge and the other unknown. They immediately stop and try for an escape, but Angus steps in front of them. I was expecting that they give him a suspension. I think beating up a guy to a bloody pulp more than qualified. Instead, he just shakes his head and tells them to "get the fuck out." They didn't hesitate, and so they took off. 

Now there were four of us: Angus, Greg in the stall, the buff unknown still lying on the floor, and me still bleeding. The security guy then helps me up. 

"You can come out now." 

Greg finally comes out, barely pulling up his pants. The unknown also gets up, and Angus approaches him and grabs the collar of his shirt. 

"What's your name?" 

"Jason." He's as handsome and buff as he looks, but he's as mean and defiant as he sounds. 

"Jason what?" 

"Jason Enderby." 

"Come along. Both of you, too," he firmly said to Greg and me. "I have something in my office to patch you guys up." 

Finding promise in that, Greg and I follow Angus through the crowd of students now rushing to class. But first we tell him that we have our stuff down the hall. Angus then follows us as we spot our belongings (my lunch box now gone) and pick them up, and we get back to following Angus. We soon arrive at a nondescript door. Angus opens it and he invites us to enter. We take the invitation. 

The office is very small and barren, except for a few degrees and pictures on the wall. There's hardly room for any of us, and the fact that there are two big guys inside didn't help either. There's also a desk that only had a nameplate and a pen. The nameplate read ANGUS BETHUNE. Angus opens up one of the desk's drawers and pulls out a bulky first-aid kit. He opens it, takes out a bottle of white stuff, probably iodine, and splashes a bit of it on a rag. The rag is folded and placed on one of the fresh cuts on my left arm. Yep, it's _definitely_ iodine, and now I wince at its touch. Then he takes out an ice pack, wraps another cloth around it, and puts it on one of the bruises on my face. 

"Forget this, I've got class to go to." Jason gets up and approaches the door. 

"SIT BACK DOWN!!!" Angus blurts out. Scared shitless, Jason quickly follows the order. 

Angus moves my hand and places it over the ice pack for me to hold it. Now he takes out some sort of form and jots down something on it using the pen on the desk. 

"Jason Enderby," he mumbles much more calmly than before, "You're an awesome receiver. I hear you can do the forty in 4.6." 

Upon hearing this, Jason puffs himself up and says, "Hell yeah!" 

"A likely story," Angus replies dryly. If he knows that much about Jason and his Pop Warner days, he surely must've heard about my feats, too. As though he read my mind, however, Angus turns to me. 

"And Robert Bean." 

My heart leaped up into my throat. 

"You can do the forty in 5.2, and you're a great tackler and blocker." 

That was awesome that he knew that about me! I want to tell him that I'm a better pitcher than a lineman (at least I thought I was), but I didn't want to somehow spoil this sudden praise. 

Then he tore off whatever he was writing from the pad and handed it to Jason. 

"Good receivers shouldn't be in detention. 3:10 today at the cafeteria, Enderby." 

Indignantly, Jason snatches the detention and scowls at it. Then he leaves, without Angus saying anything else. 

I'm guessing that he was going to give us detentions, too. Not that I wanted one, but, well, he could. Instead, he just smiles. 

"And I'm guessing you must be the unathletic token geek who masturbates to _manga_?" 

Greg looked out-of-sorts on hearing that. Then Angus pulls out the comic book that Greg had. He leafs it, and two of the pages stuck together. Greg blushes a deep red. 

"I once played third-baseman in the Little League." 

"What's your name?" 

"Greg Mongeau." 

"Holy shit! You're a Mongeau?" 

Greg nods. 

"Kick ass!" Angus hands the comic book back to Greg and sits on the desk near him, anxious to talk to Greg the Mongeau. 

The walkie-talkie sounds off again. "Angus, can you get the nurse? There's a puker in the west hall." 

Angus sighs and shakes his head as he heads to the door. 

"You guys want to stay here for the rest of the period, while your bruises heal a bit?" 

More than happily, Greg and I nod. Angus leaves. 


	4. The Doctor's Office

**The Doctor's Office**

So I sit with Greg in Angus Bethune's office, holding an ice pack on my bruised face. Greg minds his own business as he quietly looks at his sticky comic book. After about 20 minutes, seeing him fumbling through it gets boring, so I stand up and look at the pictures and degrees on the wall. 

The first picture I see is of a football team wearing blue-and-white uniforms with OWATONNA written across the jerseys. Immediately, I noticed Angus dotting Jersey Number 76. Even though I'm guessing this was him while he was in high school, he actually looks _older_ in this photo. 

Then next to it is a photograph of another football team, this time wearing blue-and-gold. On one of the helmets I notice a name: U.C.L.A. Whoa! Could Angus have played college football? I look around the picture, and sure enough, I see his face. He looks happier than in the other one. 

Next to that is a degree. It's a bachelor's from U.C.L.A. in sports medicine. That's awesome. I hear that in college, a lot of players take some wimpy major, like communications or economics, so that schooling doesn't take too much of their time and mind from the field. Sports medicine can't be wimpy. 

Finally, there's another degree. This one was a doctorate in the same major. _Oh shit! Angus is a doctor!?_ Then that would make him _Doctor_ Bethune. This guy must be really smart! Then I had to ask what's a guy like that doing here, cleaning up people's processed lunches. No matter, I sometimes think of being a doctor, or a scientist or something scientific; maybe he could help me out, if baseball or football didn't go through. It's always nice to have a safety. 

"What do you think of him?" I ask Greg without realizing it. 

"Huh?" Greg responds knee-jerkedly as though he came out of a trance. 

"The security guy." 

"Oh. He's okay. Better than _Mister_ Mattison, I guess." Yes, _Mister_ Mattison never liked it when he heard his last name called without the title, and he would give detentions just because of that. For that matter, he gave kids detention for _any_ little reason he could scrape up like, for example, saying hello. My dealings with him, however, were never based on trivial things. He often had to break up fights I was involved with, and it was always me that ended up spending the afternoon picking up trash under his watchful eye and acidic tongue. More than once did he suggest rather meanly that I should move my fat ass out of his way and "lose some weight if you wanna get laid, or else you'll crush some poor girl to death." 

That's a sad way of summing up my purpose in life. My life is hell-bent on ridding this great gut that hangs all around me. Everything I try fails, and believe me, I've tried everything. Fasting, dieting, exercise, sports, treadmills, counseling. Hell, I hardly even eat anything; my refrigerator storing nothing but bread, cheese and dead flies. I ask my dad to get me nothing but salad, orange juice, and other presumably nutritious stuff. Instead, he brings home pizzas, burgers, and sodas galore. Most of the time, I try to ignore these offerings, but then my dad would bust out with his speech on ingratitude and being thankful, so I force it all down my throat, feeling as though the guilt would chuck it back up. How am I ever going to get laid like that? And why am I all riled up about it? I don't even know _how_ to lay a girl! 

How did I wind up thinking about this!? Oh yeah: _Mister_ Mattison! I'm glad he's gone now. Dr. Bethune will probably be a lot better than him. 

Then the door opens. 

"Okay, guys," Angus says as he enters the room, "I already have notes for you to give to your teacher saying what happened." Angus hands the notes. I read mines quickly. The fight was mentioned, but it also says that we weren't at fault. Now I'm wondering what would he do if one day _I_ caused a sensation. Then I think about all the stories the school's rumor mill will churn up once my class sees a big black bruise on my cheek. It's all upsetting! I wish I could stay here for the rest of the day and get away from all of that! 

"Do we really have to go?" I ask weakly to Angus. 

"I'm not supposed to keep you here forever," Angus sighs with a small frown, "but I wouldn't mind some company." 

"Then I can stay?" 

"Just for a few more minutes." 

I can hear Greg whisper a quick _yes_. 

"So, Greg. What did those guys want?" Angus said. 

"I don't know. They just started to tickle me." 

"Sounds kinky." 

Greg chuckles at that. "Yeah, I guess." 

Turning to me, Angus says, "And you came in and tried to save him." 

I nod stupidly. 

"Kick ass." 

This threw me off a bit. He actually _liked_ what I did back there. Angus obviously caught the confused look on my face. 

"You're a good friend, Robert, defending Greg even though you knew you'd get in trouble." 

The fact that he called me by my first name and not another weight-related moniker makes me feel good. 

"Are you going to make the team this year?" 

"I don't know. Loge's a better pitcher, so he'll definitely be there. I'll probably end up relieving him." 

"You pitch?" 

I nod. 

"I hope to see you play sometime. You better go now." 

I didn't want to go, but I had to. I get up, and Greg does the same. We leave the room, but not before Angus says, "You're going to be a great pitcher. Anyone that tells you anything else, well, screw 'em!" 

He knows how to make a fat boy smile.


End file.
